


Bloodsong

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 03:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11394480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: Things I am rusty at: writing fic, and writing porn, and writing kink meme fills.Nonetheless, I have made an attempt.Prompt was Furiosa 'wet dream'. Somehow it came out angsty.





	Bloodsong

He didn’t want to die. Not really. 

He didn’t want to live, at least not in the way he had before, where you loved people a nd they trusted you and then they died, leaving you fighting a cyclone of betrayal. There had to be something in the middle, some way to go on without feeling quite so dead or half so alive, but he hadn’t found it yet. 

He was starting to doubt he ever would. 

All he knew is that anything that felt like feeling, anything that kindled something warm and liquid and alive in him hurt too much, like guzzoline burning in his veins. 

And so he left. For their protection. For his own. So he couldn’t let them down, so they couldn’t shatter the last shard of his heart. 

He left. He walked away. What else could he do? Every step hurt, every step felt like an uprooting, but he’d kept taking them because even that pain was better than what would happen if he stayed.

But even though he left the Citadel, every time sleep dogged his eyelids, he felt something tug at his, some place in his soul, a sharp glittering wire of what might have been. 

**** 

His blood was in her. 

That thought occurred to Furiosa, again and again, at odd times: looking over the ochre vistas from the Citadel, walking through the damp green of the hydroponics gardens, in the darkest cooled stone stretches of the night. His blood, inside her, a kind of intimacy beyond intimacy. 

The War Boys would dismiss it, of course--they saw everything through their mechanical metaphor, so blood was simply grades of guzzoline, and their own failing bodies were like the cars they worked on, kept going somehow, anyhow. Machines, and fuel, and nothing more, except inevitable death. 

But she didn’t feel like a machine, and his blood hadn’t felt like mere fuel. And death? She'd never been in love with it, never less than that day in the War Rig, determined to bring some life to this dead, awful world. His blood was something more, something potent and strong, that had surged through her failing body, sweeping her back, almost against her will, to forceful, vivid life, intense and purposeful. 

And she could feel it still, spinning through her veins, a kind of electric thrill, as she lay on her bed--a thin pile of fabric and leather as a mattress beneath her, and a silver sliver of moonlight slicing over her bare thighs.

The same moon, she thought, idly. The same moon above both of them. She wondered if he was looking at it, too, wondered if its light was limning the line of his shoulders, catching on the worn metal of his leg brace. Or maybe on his bare skin, like hers--she’d never seen his body, without layers of cloth and leather and metal over it, and her mind caught at the idea, trying to imagine Max naked. What scars covered his body? Had they faded to a white lacework yet, or was the the kind whose scars were dark, like webbing? She couldn’t imagine him without scars, and stories under each one. 

It wasn’t that she’d never seen a man naked--she’d seen more of Immortan Joe than was probably good for her sanity. His body had been scarred, too, but the skin under it flabby and loose and coarse, his hands sweaty and grimy, somehow, grubbing over her flesh. 

He wouldn’t be like that, she thought. Like her, he would be strong, like her, his skin stretched over firm muscle. She didn’t want to think about Immortan Joe anymore, especially not that way, his flabby body surging between her thighs. Furiosa shifted, restless, turning onto her side, back to the bright slice of moon, and let sleep take her. Immortan Joe was dead now, gone, and the Citadel was a safe place for women. For everyone. 

Safe, but, for Furiosa, a little lonely. In sleep, in dreams, however….

**

He was over her. He. Him. Max. He was over her, and sharing his name again, like a sacred thing, blood and breath and body. And then further, saying her name, as he leaned in closer, close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips. “Furiosa,” he whispered, and for the first time her name sounded beautiful. His mouth quirked, at the end, that one corner jumping up, like some bit of happiness trying to escape, and she couldn’t bear it any more, tipping her face up, and closing the distance between them, her mouth brushing against his, warm and electric, his lips softer and fuller than they had any right to be. 

She could feel, as much as hear, the soft grunt, and the heat of his hand against her ribs, blazing lines through the layers of binding cloth. Her breasts surged up into his touch, her arm around his neck, pulling him down against her. Her mouth slid from his across his cheek, breath tickling across his ear. 

She caught his scent--sweat and leather and an animal heat. “I want you,” she whispered, her breath stirring his cropped hair, stirring her own heart with something like fear, naked in the admission. He gave a hissing intake of breath, and she could feel his spine arch, pressing, grinding down against her, muscle and bone and honor and need and nothing at all like Immortan Joe. 

“Too many clothes,” Max muttered, in her dream, his hands scrabbling over her leather binding. 

“Yes.” Same problem. Too much between them--leather and cloth and metal. And she knew, dimly, something more separated them. Distance. Time. Regrets and shriveled fears. But she turned away from that, back into the pool of heat and want gathering in her belly. 

He sat up, kneeling between her thighs, spreading them apart, to peel off his jacket, and she let herself admire, openly, rawly, the pull of his shirt over his chest, even as she wanted the shirt gone, too, to see his bare skin, to feel it under her hand. 

Why wait? Her hands snatched at the fabric of the shirt, her good hand sliding underneath it, to the hidden skin of his belly, sliding around his waist to his back, feeling the tattoos like the ghosts of scars, enthralled by the swell of muscles down his back, by the sudden well of the spine, her metal hand tugging insistently, threatening to tear the fabric in impatience. 

Max stripped off the shirt, pulling from one side up and over, tousling his hair, which he smoothed, self-consciously, after tossing the shirt aside. His chest heaved, breathing deep and fast already, feeling her eyes on him, skimming the contours of his body. “You, now,” he said, his voice husky, his hands tearing at the fabric binding her breasts. She could feel the sudden strike of cool air, her breasts falling open to the sides as the fabric gave, like a book falling open, like guzzoline burning on her skin as she drew his hands down to her, pulling him down into another kiss. Both of them gasped, bare skin on skin, the hard points of her nipples and the rounded swells of her breasts against the flat of his chest, and his hands dragged down her body to tear at the waist of her trousers. 

She snarled, feeling the liquid heat turn feral in her, lifting her hips to shuck the trousers over her hips clamping her thighs around his own, broader hips as soon as her legs were free, trapping him against her, feeling the swell of his erection, trapped in his own pants, throb against her, responding to the growl, to the wildness in her want. 

He tried to shift, grinding himself against her to their mutual frustration, a soft groan building to a growl, and the kiss breaking to become his teeth at her throat, his hips bucking against hers until he wrenched free. Then it was a flurry of hands, both of them tearing at the fly of his pants, just enough to free his erection. 

She squeezed his cock with her good hand, feeling the heat and hardness kindle her own lust, feeling that liquid heat turn to slickness. 

Furiosa wasn’t a woman who said ‘please’, but if she did, she would have whined the word at him, almost begging him. 

But Max didn’t, he wouldn't, need begging--he rocked his hips back, dragging the underside of his cock down over her wetness, before pushing in, slowly, catching her eyes with his own, and holding her gaze as he filled her, his face inches, at most, from hers, his belly against the bowl of her hips as though it had found a home there, peace and hard-won rest. 

Max paused for a long moment, sheathed inside her, a breath shuddering out of him, before he began moving, a slow, sinuous rocking under her hands, so unlike Joe’s sharp pistoning to immolate the memory of the Immortan’s body against hers forever, burning out that ugliness with this slow, animal sharing of desire. There was only this--skin and muscle and eyes the color of the long-dead oceans, kicking up lust and longing like a tempest. And he rode the tides of her, rocking into her rolling hips, with a patient kind of urgency, fighting himself and his own need to make it last, to make it build, till that electric heat burned through all of her, singing in her veins, blazing through her lungs, a white incandescence building and bursting inside her in bright, shuddering waves her arms clutching at him, legs trying to bind him to her, inside her, even as she felt him slipping away, even as the shuddering release seemed to fade to a wet, hollow throb as the dream shredded, and she was once again, alone in the Citadel, twisting on cool stone, alone. 

****

He’d had to leave. It was right--the rightest he’d ever done--to leave, when possibilities and potentials were still living things, not withered and scorched, not outlived, outworn. What if was better than what have you done, always, always. He knew that, in what was left of his heart. 

It didn’t make nights like this any easier, when he woke up, a bead of wetness welling at the tip of his hard cock, a name on his lips whispered in time with the aching pulse of his blood, longing for home. 


End file.
